


By Your Side

by Shadowy_Dumbo_Octopus



Category: Bartimaeus - Jonathan Stroud
Genre: Actual married couple, Alternate Universe - Addams Family Fusion, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, As per anon's request I'm uploading my trash, Cuddling To Stay Warm, Established Relationship, Fight me Stroud, First of all let's establish some things, Fix-It, Fluff, I'll add tags as I go along, Idiots in Love, M/M, More of a rewritten scene that still works in canon, Murder Husbands, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Reincarnation, Sappy reunions, Well - Freeform, arguing like an old married couple, because that's the sort of person I am, come on guys, feast your eyes, why is that not a tag already
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2019-02-17 06:41:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13071270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowy_Dumbo_Octopus/pseuds/Shadowy_Dumbo_Octopus
Summary: As per anon's request, I'm uploading a bunch of my Khaba/Ammet oneshots (at least the relatively decent ones.) Enjoy my trash.(Used to be "Don't torture yourself; that's my job" before I came up with something better.)





	1. Cold

**Author's Note:**

> Don’t ask how they got there. Let’s just assume that Solomon sent them on an errand to aid some unfortunate losers during winter time – I recall him sending his magicians away on similar tasks to avoid using the ring... Okay okay. I wrote this just to make them snuggle. Also, this happens pretty early into their relationship so, you know, they're still building trust and stuff.

It was cold. 

And quiet.

Khaba tried to open his eyes, but it seemed like his eyelids were numb. In fact, his entire body was beginning to feel numb.

He had to admit that it felt rather calm, serene; the silence, the darkness, how he felt like he was floating freely, the pale faint, blue glow above his floating form… he breathed in, but immediately gagged when bitingly cold water entered his throat. Coughing, he tried to swim upwards but found that he was losing the feeling in his limbs. Darkness began to loom in the corners of his vision as he desperately tried to find a way out. 

Suddenly, a strong hand grabbed his wrist and pulled him up and out of the water.

Coldness assaulted him from all sides. Khaba was coughing and shivering as someone hastily carried him through the ice. Eventually, he managed to open his eyes, blinking droplets of water away. 

Ammet. 

Panic surged through Khaba’s veins. He tried to say something; an order, but his teeth were rattling too much and he couldn’t construct sentences. He considered trying to break free of the shadow’s grasp, but decided that unwise, since they were still on the ice. Besides, he was too weak to move.

Ammet must have noticed that he was trying to articulate words because he seemed to glance at him briefly (although it was difficult to tell because the shadow’s guise had no features.)  
“Don’t talk.” He said, “Save your strength.”

As disgraceful it was to be receiving orders from one’s own slave, Khaba nodded and wrapped his drenched cloak around himself more tightly in a futile attempt to ward off the chill that was seeping through his bones. Damn Solomon and damn his errands! Why send them halfway across the world to aid some miserable kingdom if he could easily do it himself with his Ring? Just send a couple afrits and maybe a marid or two and then the job would be done. 

As they walked, Ammet changed his hold so that he had one arm free and began to break off tree branches that weren’t covered in snow. Khaba was too tired to care why he did that, so he allowed his head to rest against the marid’s chest and closed his eyes…

“Wake up!” The shadow’s urgent voice snapped him awake, “If you fall asleep now you might not wake up again.” Ammet seemed to quicken his pace and soon they reached the camp they had made near the lake. 

There, the shadow dropped the branches and gently set him down. Then, he summoned a ball of red flame, sending it to ignite the dry wood and went over to retrieve a couple of furs and blankets. Khaba watched him from his place near the fire, confusion eating at him almost as much as the cold. Why was Ammet helping him? By all logic, he should’ve allowed him to drown in the lake and return to the Other Place, or leave him in the forest to freeze to death. He frowned, trying to recall the exact wording of the charge he placed on Ammet. Did it include protecting him from everything, or just his enemies? He was too cold to remember.

“A…Ammet.” He managed to choke out through rattling teeth. 

The shadow turned its head to look at him.  
“Don’t move away from the fire.” It warned. Khaba wanted to scoff at the foolish notion, but the warning only increased his confusion. It was as if Ammet wanted to keep him alive.

Eventually the marid returned, placing the furs aside and reached towards him, claws outstretched. 

‘He’s going to kill me.’ Khaba thought instinctively, mind too hazy to remember the protective bonds and clauses. He tried to edge away or speak an incantation, but all he could do was stutter out a “stop.” 

(Curse that cold. He mentally took back every complaint he ever made about Egypt’s climate; he would’ve killed for a ray of sun.)

The shadow hesitated for a second, tilting its head to the side, before grabbing his tunic and tearing it off, the material peeling from his skin.  
“Your clothes are soaked with cold water.” he explained, “You will freeze in them.”

Khaba was too stunned to protest. Ammet was right; he would freeze much more quickly with those on. When the marid was done, he reached to the pile of furs and wrapped a couple of them around his master’s trembling form. Then, he sat down beside him and pulled him onto his lap, large wings sprouting from his back and wrapping around them, warding off the cold wind.

“What…” Khaba tried to ask. What in hells was Ammet doing? Why was he helping him? Why didn’t he just leave him to die? Khaba couldn’t recall the exact words he used during binding but he was pretty sure that they excluded situations like this one. In all probability, Ammet could’ve easily allowed him to drown or freeze to death if he wanted to. “What are you doing?”

“You need to get warmed up quickly.” Ammet patiently explained, shifting a little so they both could be more comfortable, “The best way is sharing body heat.”

That did make sense. When he leaned against him, Khaba could feel warmth radiating from the shadow’s form; it seemed that spirits could manipulate their body temperature. He filed it away for further analysis. 

“Why are you h…helping me?” he somehow managed to choke out through rattling teeth. 

Ammet shrugged. “I don’t want you to die.” He answered simply. As if that made anything clearer.

“But _why?_ ” Khaba pressed on. It made no sense to him. Surely, the marid had to have some ulterior motive. Perhaps he merely waited for an opportunity to kill him himself, and not let the water or cold take revenge away from him?

Another shrug. “You’re a formidable magician; you have potential. It would’ve been a waste to let someone of your power die. Besides, drowning or freezing aren’t dignified deaths; if you have to die, at least do it in a memorable way.”

Everything he said made the whole situation even more puzzling.  
“If you allowed me to d…die, you would’ve been free.” Khaba found that he wasn’t shaking so badly anymore. Ammet was surprisingly warm for a shadow.

The marid seemed to consider the statement.  
“Perhaps I do not want freedom.” he finally said, seeming to smile under the featureless guise. “With your permission, we will discuss it further when your body temperature is slightly higher than that of a corpse. How are you feeling?”

Khaba considered the question, deciding to, following Ammet’s advice, leave the first statement for later.  
“Better,” He hummed, “although I still can’t move my limbs.”

“Good.” The embrace around his shoulders tightened slightly. “You do seem warmer; I think that it’s now safe for you to sleep.”

Khaba barked out a laugh. “Do you take me for a fool?” he hissed. “I’m not leaving myself vulnerable near a demon.”

“A good mindset.” Ammet agreed, seemingly not bothered by his attitude. “However, you won’t do yourself any favours by staying up all night; we have to be on our way tomorrow. Besides, if I wanted to kill you, I would’ve allowed you to drown.”

Khaba’s eyes narrowed. “Drowning wouldn’t be a dignified death; you said so yourself. How do I know that you won’t murder me in my sleep?”

The shadow nodded with what seemed to be approval.  
“Getting killed by one’s slave is undignified, too.” He replied simply. “Why would I go through all the bother to keep you from freezing if I could’ve eviscerated you after pulling you out of the water? I just don’t want you to die, it’s that simple.”

“But why?!” A draught slipped between the feathers, making Khaba shiver. Instantly, Ammet pulled him closer and shifted his wings.

“Like I said, we will discuss it at a later date. Now I would advise you to go to sleep; judging by the stars, it’s almost midnight. I’ll wake you up if something happens.”

Feeling that further conversation would be pointless, Khaba sighed, resting his head against the marid’s shoulder. He watched the crackling fire for a while before forcing himself to relax. He leaned back, closing his eyes and taking in Ammet’s warmth; something was telling him that the marid won’t let any harm befall him. 

“Ammet?” he whispered.

“Yes, master?”

“… Thank you.”

The shadow glanced at him. This time, Khaba was absolutely sure that he was smiling. “Anything for you, dear master.”


	2. 2:35am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern/Reincarnation AU. The prompts were late night shenanigans + planning world domination.
> 
> This is one of my first fics for this pairing, so it isn't as good as the rest. Nonetheless, I quite like it.

Khaba glanced at the digital clock at the nightstand.

2:35am.

He sighed, resting his head against the headboard. He’s been sitting on his bed for the past two and a half hours, one of which had been spent debating whether or not he should get up and light another cigarette. He spent the other hour and a half playing some stupid movie he ended up not paying attention to; drinking five coffees; lighting up a cigarette by the open window and winning a staring contest against a crow perched on the roof opposite.

He couldn’t sleep.

“Master?” a familiar voice pulled him from his thoughts.

“What is it, Ammet?” he asked, sitting up and looking in the general direction of where the voice came from. Try spotting your shadowy boyfriend in near-complete darkness.

“You left the TV on.” The marid replied. Indeed, Khaba could see a faint blue glow from under the door to the living room. 

He cursed silently, getting up and walking to the living room. The movie was over, and another was playing; it was some cheap sci-fi bullshit, so he changed the channel a few times before turning the TV off. No point wasting electricity on something he wasn’t going to watch anyway.

“Still can’t sleep?” Suddenly, a whisper just beside his ear, “Is there something I can do?” 

The corner of Khaba’s mouth twitched up ever so slightly. He leaned back on the sofa so that Ammet could rest his chin on his head.  
“Unfortunately,” he sighed, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the now dark room. “I don’t think that even you could be of much help here; I’ve been trying for five goddamn hours.” At this point, he was ready to accept that he won’t be sleeping until morning. “You can make me a coffee, though. Strong, black, no sugar; you know the one.”

“Why won’t you make it yourself?” the presence behind him shifted, and he felt rather than saw the shadow sit on the other end of the couch. “I’d rather stay here, to be honest. Besides, I don’t know how to operate the blasted coffee machine.”

Khaba laughed. “Where are the times when you did everything I asked you to without a word of complaint?” he sighed, not even pretending to be angry. 

“Probably in the same place as the times when your demands consisted of torturing spirits and humans, not making coffee.” 

“…Touché.”

They sat in silence for a while, neither feeling like moving. Ammet was right, Khaba mused. Their lives have taken quite a wild turn from overthrowing kings and collecting skulls to selling books and occasionally tormenting Bartimaeus to kill boredom and extract a bit of petty revenge. Still, although they both found the domesticity ridiculously boring, at least they were relatively safe, which was a lot more than it could be said about their lives in Egypt and Jerusalem…

…Plus, who said that they were done with being evil? Surely, if he could dig out the ritual for the essence cage from among his notes, something could certainly be arranged.

The magician smiled to his thoughts. 

“Alright, I’ll get the damned coffee myself.” he chuckled, standing up. “A marid of 7th level and you can’t operate a simple coffee machine; Unbelievable, honestly. What am I supposed to do with you?”

Either the marid didn’t reply, or his response was drowned in the sounds coming from the coffee maker. Which coffee was that, anyway? Third? Sixth? He’d lost count.

As the coffee was brewing, Khaba reached to actually turn on the light. It took him five tries.

“You know, when one wants to go to sleep, they shouldn’t drink coffee; especially not six cups.” Ammet’s semi-disapproving, semi-amused voice floated to the kitchen.

Ah, so it was the sixth. Explains why the walls were looking so… wavy.

“Don’t tell me how to live my life, please.” He called back. “Besides, I wouldn’t be able to sleep, anyway; you know I’m a light sleeper.”

Once the coffee was done, the magician returned to the living room, turned on the lamp and sat back on the sofa.

“Tell you what, Ammet…” he began, sipping the coffee. “We should try to take over the world again.”

“Oh?” came the reply, and this time Khaba was absolutely certain that he heard a chuckle; He chose to ignore it.

“We were so close the last time, so why not try again? This time, I have a plan that will leave no room for failure, you’ll see.” Somehow during the course of the two sentences, he ended up lying on the floor, the mug of coffee within arm’s reach. It was late and he was so deliriously tired that the walls were beginning to change colour, so who cares at this point? “You see, our greatest mistake the last time was letting Bartimaeus and that bitch live…” 

“ _Your_ greatest mistake.” Ammet corrected.

“What?”

“I told you I would’ve rather eaten the djinni, and you’re the one who lowered your guard near the girl, allowing her to steal the bottle.”

Khaba waved his hand dismissively, cringing. “Don’t remind me, please.” He groaned. “Gods, how could I have been so stupid? Anyway, this time we’re not letting any captives get away. Plus, I’m laying off alcohol for a while; it impairs judgement.”

“A good choice.”

“Indeed. Back to my plan.” He sat up for a moment to finish the coffee. “Right, the first thing we’d need to do is… what are you laughing at?”

The shadow chuckled, shaking his head. “Nothing.” He replied. “Please, do carry on, Master.”

Khaba narrowed his eyes at him. “Alright.” He returned to his previous position on the floor. “The first thing we’d need to do is get rid of the police. I swear, things were so much simpler back in Jerusalem where one could just steal a beggar off the streets and torture him into madness, and nobody would bat an eyelid if you were careful enough.” He raised his arm again, gesturing in the air. “Now the streets are crawling with werewolves and everyone has an ID, so people would notice if someone mysteriously disappeared. How the hell am I supposed to work under these conditions?” 

“Tragic.” Ammet nodded understandingly. “Do you have any ideas how we’d get around that?”

The magician shook his head, “Not yet, no.” he said, “But we’ll figure I out, you’ll see. Once we’re done with them, then…”

 

**3:00a.m**

 

“…Ammet, did I ever tell you how much I love you?”

“A few times, yes.”

“That’s good. But you do know that I love you, right? Like, a lot. More than anyone I’ve ever met.”

“Of course, Master.”

“More than I love coffee.”

“That’s rather impressive. I’m honoured.”

“You better be. I’ve been repressing that stuff for years. Speaking of coffee, we need to discuss the placement and size of the coffee bean plantations. Once we deal with the Columbian government we’ll…”

 

**4:15a.m**

 

“Master?”

“…”

“Khaba!”

“Wh… What is it?”

“You’ve been staring at that wall for the last fifteen minutes. Are you alright?”

“What? Oh, yes. I’m perfectly fine, my dear Ammet.”

“Are you sure?”

“…”

“…Thought so.”

 

**7:30 a.m.**

 

The faint beeping of the alarm clock sounded from the bedroom, making Ammet look up from _“The Complete Fiction of H.P. Lovecraft.”_ Fortunately, it wasn’t loud enough to wake his master, so the spirit resumed the lecture. It was Sunday, so the antique shop was closed; there was no reason why Khaba had to get up early.

The magician was currently asleep, his head resting on the shadow’s shoulder. He’s been like that for about two hours, after dozing off in the middle of describing his plans for Australia. (Or lack thereof – too many murderous animals to bother. “Just nuke the whole damn continent and hope that the animals aren’t immune to radiation.” Khaba muttered before his head fell against Ammet’s shoulder and he doze off. Ammet didn’t have the heart to wake him.) 

Eventually the book began to bore him, so Ammet put it away and leaned back, listening to his master’s quiet breathing. Out of all the things he was deprived of during his Confinement, this was what he missed most. Not the joy from eviscerating someone, not even the comfort of the Other Place. (Although that was a close second.)

He knew that he would be liberated sooner or later – after all, what were a few millennia in the life of a spirit? But he never even dared to hope he would see Khaba again. That was the one thing that plagued him almost constantly during the first few hundred years of his imprisonment. He thrashed against the walls of his prison until he could barely move, screamed his rage and sorrow until his throat was raw. _I’m sorry!_ He yelled, clawing against the cold, unrelenting walls. _It was my fault; I failed you. Please, forgive me. I need you. I don’t know what to do without you. Just give me one more chance; I won’t fail you again, I swear! I’ll do anything. Anything! I…_

_“I’d follow you to the ends of the earth.”_ The marid whispered, _“I’d overthrow a thousand kingdoms for you, slaughter entire armies, shatter the sky itself if you asked.”_

_The one thing I wouldn’t do, however…_

_…Would be letting you go again._


	3. Valentine's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Again, Modern/Reincarnation AU, mostly because Ammet seems like the kind of person/spirit who'd go ridiculously overboard during Valentine's Day.
> 
> Also an original character of mine, Azari, makes an appearance here. She's currently working for John Mandrake, Kitty Jones and Peter King (actual name: Ptolemaeus,) but that's a story for another longfic.

"Zira?"

Azari looked up from her book, eyeing the dark-haired man sitting opposite her. “What is it, Rahab?” she reached for the bookmark, which was lying beside a cup of now lukewarm tea. 

Said man cleared his throat, looking around the small café they were currently sitting in, his unusually black eyes scanning the pink and red heart ornaments that hung here and there.  
“Pray tell,” he began, “what exactly is Valentine’s Day?”

“Are you not familiar with this holiday?” Azari smiled in amusement. She enjoyed pestering her old friend.

“I have been trapped in a wine amphora for the past three thousand years, so I can’t say that I am.” Ammet snarled. “I just don’t get the point of all… this.” He gestured vaguely, indicating the café’s romantic décor. 

The other marid merely shrugged, returning to her book. “From what I know, the purpose of this day was originally to commemorate the unfortunate passing of St. Valentine, a saint who performed weddings for lovers who were prohibited to marry. The poor soul was beheaded on the 14th of February, 269 AD, and the date ended up marking the day when couples display their love and affection for each other. Typically, they exchange flowers, confectionery and cute but otherwise useless trinkets.”

“If they’re truly in love, why won’t they do that everyday? The whole concept seems rather forced.” Ammet crossed his arms, leaning back in his seat. “And anyway, why is giving each other food regarded as romantic?”

Azari shrugged once again. “Humans can be peculiar.” She said. “As a matter of fact, it is a little forced since it gives companies an excuse to over-advertise their products and make more profit. Regarding food, my best guess that it tastes better when somebody else has bought it for you, or that the sweetness of candy represents the bliss of the couple’s time together. I do not know exactly; I’ve never had a significant other.

“Besides,” she added in a low voice, red eyes twinkling knowingly under half-rimmed glasses. “Valentine’s Day serves as a reminder to some that they are lucky to be together. If not for St. Valentine, many couples would not have been able to marry and live happily. This day is not only a celebration, but also a reminder to be thankful for and appreciate the opportunity to spend time with the love of your life.”

She looked up again to find Ammet staring at her intently, expression unreadable.

“Speaking of which,” she smiled innocently, “does your master know that you are here?”

Ammet seemed to consider the question.  
“Yes and no.” he eventually replied. “He knows that I’m out in London, but probably isn’t aware of my exact location.”

“I would have thought that you spend more time together.”

“We’re not inseparable.” he sneered. “Mandrake and others allow you to wander the streets freely, so why shouldn’t Khaba allow me to do the same?”

“Aside from the fact that you are his shadow?”

“Aside from that.”

“Maybe he has grown fed up with you? You can be insufferable at times.”

“Says a walking encyclopaedia with the inability to shut up.”

Azari laughed. “It was a joke, old friend.” She assured, holding up her hands in mock surrender. “You love him, though?”

“You know that I do.”

“Then I do not see a reason why you should not find a gift for him.” she winked. “I am sure that he will appreciate the affection.”

Ammet stared at her for a few seconds before throwing his head back and laughing; other patrons were too busy talking to pay attention to them.  
“Don’t be ridiculous, Zira.” He shook his head. “As if I could get anything that would be up to his standards.”

“You could.” Azari pointed out with a grin, unbothered by his reaction. “However, I doubt that you would be able to do so legally. Then again, you are a master of stealth, after all.”

“You’re even more sarcastic than that accursed djinni.”

“You have known me for thousands of years, old friend. Please, do not tell me that you have only noticed this now.”

“Anyway,” Ammet stood up, brushing invisible dust from the simple but stylish suit that was a part of his disguise. “I’m leaving; I have other things to do.”

“Naturally.” Azari propped her chin up on her palm, red eyes drilling into his. “Have a good day, Rahab, and until next time.”

He gave her a short nod before turning on his heel and leaving.

~~~

As he walked the snowy streets of London, Ammet couldn’t help but genuinely consider the option of getting Khaba some sort of a gift. To his horror, he kept catching himself looking at the displays filled with hearts, teddy bears and other items people generally gave out during Valentine’s Day. He stopped in front of one and sighed, frustrated. No, nothing from there would do. Ammet wasn’t even sure how other people could accept such ridiculous gifts, let alone his master. 

A subtle movement caught his attention. Turning around, he saw one of London’s homeless shift slightly in their spot, wrapping their blanket tighter around themselves to ward off the February chill. Ammet considered them; Homeless, jobless, with nobody to take care of them, nobody to seek comfort from as everyone else sat in their warm homes, surrounded by friends and family. Yes, they were truly alone.

A grin twisted his lips. 

~~~

Khaba leaned against the door to his apartment, looking at his watch.

Nine fifty pm.

He searched his coat for keys, muttering angrily to himself.  
“Curse the lot of them,” he snarled, “Fools, each and every one, making me run five fucking laps around London just to sort out one thing. In the middle of February, on top of it.” He mentally took back every single complaint he ever made about the weather in Egypt; he’d go back there any day. “It wouldn’t even be as bad if not for all the Valentine’s Day bullshit everywhere. If I see one more teddy bear holding a heart with a cheesy message on it, I swear that I’m going to throw up.”

At last, he slid the key into the lock and twisted, opening the door.

“Ammet!” he called out, unzipping his coat, “I’m home.”

Curiously, there was no reply. Khaba frowned, hanging his coat and reaching to untie his scarf. Ammet always came to greet him, ask about his day and press their lips together, making all his worries fade like breath on a window pane. Could he still be out?

He was considering summoning him back when he glimpsed movement among the shadows. A breeze, a hint of movement and there was a pair of lips against his own.

“Good evening, dear master.” Ammet purred. “You’re late.”

“I know.” Khaba sighed, resting his forehead against the marid’s. “I’m sorry, I planned to finish earlier, but a couple things got in the way. A couple of very annoying things.”

“Mmm.” Ammet hummed understandingly, hands moving up to touch Khaba’s neck. “Those fools aren’t worthy of your anger; they’re mere worms we’re temporarily forced to deal with. Forget about them. There is something I would like to show you.”

“What is it?”

“Come and see.”

Khaba allowed the marid to lead him through the apartment. Once they reached the living room, he froze.

The table was set with the most exquisite dinner he’s seen since the banquets Solomon used to throw back in Jerusalem. He honestly wasn’t even aware that some of the food was available in London. However, what stunned Khaba the most was the woman tied to one of the chairs.

She couldn’t be much older than him, he calculated. Thirty eight, perhaps? Her eyes were covered with one of his ties and there was a gag in her mouth. Judging from her clothes, she was homeless.

“I found her in a homeless shelter,” Ammet’s voice sounded from behind him. “and lured her here, offering a warm meal. I doubt that anybody has noticed either her disappearance or her arrival here.”

Khaba nodded, approaching the table and noticing all of his knives set out neatly on the side, (out of the woman’s reach, of course.) He picked one up.

“Why did you bring her here?” he asked, already suspecting the answer.

“She’s a gift to you.” Ammet noiselessly walked to the woman, brushing a strand of hair from her face. She whimpered and tried to break free, but the ropes held firm. The marid grinned, revealing needle sharp teeth. “She has a lovely voice. I’m sure that you will enjoy the sound of her screaming.” A flick of his wrist and the air around them shimmered slightly.

“A bubble of silence.” Khaba felt himself smiling for the first time this week. He put the knife down, choosing a different one. “How thoughtful of you, dear Ammet.”

“After all, we wouldn’t want to bother the neighbours. Would you like to eat first or shall we begin straight away?” 

“It does seem like you’ve put a great deal of effort into the dinner. However, it’s been a bad day and I haven’t tortured someone in decades.” 

“Excellent.” Ammet gave him a quick yet affectionate peck on the cheek before removing the gag.

Immediately, the woman began to sob, the tears soaking through the tie’s material.  
“Please let me go.” She begged. “Help! Somebody help!”

Khaba tsked, approaching her slowly. He was still holding the knife.  
“A crier it is, then.” He shook his head. “Pathetic. She does have a pleasant voice, though. As always, your choice of prey is spot-on. Shall we begin?”

Ammet grinned, reaching for another knife.  
“After you, sweet Khaba.”

~~~

“Ammet?”

“Hmm?”

Khaba propped himself up on his elbow to look at his marid. He hissed, accidentally applying too much pressure on one of the claw marks on his hips. It was a rough night.  
“Not that I don’t appreciate the gesture, but why did you organise yesterday’s evening?”

Ammet chuckled, nuzzling against his collarbone. “Why, don’t you know what day it was yesterday?”

“A Sunday, why…” Khaba fell silent for a moment before laughing. “You cannot be serious.”

“I am.” The marid kissed the bite mark he left just a few hours ago. “Happy Valentine’s Day, master.”


	4. A rather peculiar family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Addams' Family AU nobody asked for.  
> The surname Peregrine has been borrowed from the "Miss Peregrine's Home For Peculiar Children" franchise to maximize the peculiar aspect.  
> I came up with the shades myself, because I find the concept cute.

It was a beautiful evening in London. The sky was grey, the rain was pouring down, and the thunder was rolling as if the world itself was about to end.

The Peregrine family mansion buzzed with activity. 

“JABOR, GIVE IT BACK!” A shout sounded just as a large black hound rounded the corner, running as fast as it could with a hairbrush in its teeth. It was followed suit by a smaller but no less threatening brown hound, which was screaming curses at it in a high, feminine voice with a distinct British accent.

They dashed past the kitchen, where a chubby cook was preparing supper. He was peeling potatoes with his hands while the numerous tentacles extending from his back were chopping vegetables, washing the dishes, and expertly gutting a large boar. 

He lifted his gaze briefly when the two dogs passed by the door, but merely shook his head and returned to peeling, muttering something about serving these idiots for dinner someday. The fact that he was dating one of said idiots changed absolutely nothing.

The larger hound finally found the back door and, after a brief struggle with the doggy door, made its way into the vast grounds owned by the Peregrines.

“JABOR, I SWEAR THAT I’M GOING TO GUT YOU IF YOU GET MUD ON MY BRUSH.” The smaller dog shrieked as she appeared from under the flap and gave chase once again.

The dog named Jabor ignored her, purposefully jumping into puddles and splashing dirty water everywhere. It meandered expertly between trees, traps, and several yet unburied dead bodies before finding the hole it dug out earlier that day, now filled with mud and rainwater. 

Disregarding the other dog’s threats, it jumped inside, hairbrush and all.

~~~

John was coming back from yet another uneventful day in the Parliament when he heard a deafening howl coming from the gardens. He elected to ignore it, merely rolling his eyes and Jane and Jabor’s antics. Damned werewolves. 

He walked through the front gate of the Peregrine manor and finally closed his umbrella. He carefully shook it dry and wiped his feet (Honorius would murder him if he dirtied the carpets) and entered the dark, gothic parlour adorned with disturbingly detailed statues of tormented looking creatures of various shapes and sizes. Their eyes watched him pass.

John Peregrine, previously Nathaniel Underwood, was taken in by the Peregrines shortly after the messy affair with Simon Lovelace. At first, the poor boy was scared and sceptical, having heard many rumours about the peculiar family. Any doubts were, however, quickly dispelled as he found himself fitting in almost instantly. 

After removing his coat and shoes and leaving the umbrella in the stand, John headed for the kitchen. “Good afternoon, Faquarl.” He stuck his head through the door. “What’s for supper?”

“You if you won’t let me work.” The cook grumbled, his tentacles curling with annoyance. He was holding the biggest cleaver John has ever seen. “Ask me in an hour.”

“Will do.” John reached for an apple from the fruit bowl and left the kitchen. Faquarl’s attitude didn’t bother him anymore; the demon was forbidden to harm anyone from the Peregrine family, regardless if they were related by blood or not.

As he walked up the stairs, John finished the apple and tossed the core into the gathering of shadows by the mirror. There was a crunch and grateful, discordant chattering.

“No problem, Y'gitthrva, Ghoshkirr, Advrfir.” He waved at the shades. Sure, they probably have been fed already, but a little snack never killed anyone, right?

Unless _you_ were that snack, of course.

He passed the training room where Asmira, his veeeery distant cousin, was practising knife-throwing. She was aunt Balkis’ protégée and such-and-such-removed niece, which of course made her a Peregrine. She didn’t seem too happy about that, though. Oh well.

Not wanting to interrupt her by saying hello, John moved on until he reached his room.

“Home sweet home.” He sighed, dropping his bag on the floor and falling on the bed. “No questions, no Jenkins, no stupidity.” He was the right hand of one of the high-ranking PMs, so he had to put up with pretty much the same bullshit as his master. 

He stood up, changed out of his rain-drenched suit into a fresh one and left his bedroom once again, deciding to see if the heads of the Peregrine house have come home already.

Kaspar Alexander Peregrine was a peculiar man; rumours said that Kaspar wasn’t even his real name. Naturally, it wasn’t; every magician needed a second name to hide his true one to keep themselves safe. However, Kaspar was neither Mr Peregrine’s true nor taken name.

John knew what it actually was - the chosen name, that is. Mr Peregrine changed it after a certain failed takeover attempt (one of the many reasons why he and Asmira disliked each other.) He found out what it was after about two weeks of intensive and rather dangerous research, and Mr Peregrine was so impressed that he didn’t even kill him for possessing that information. 

That was one of the masters. The other one didn’t really bother with formalities, allowing John to address him by his name. John did so, knowing very well that he would be doomed if he ever tried to use it against him; the other Mr Peregrine was… creepy, but alright once you convinced him not to loathe your entire self. 

On his way back downstairs, he bumped into a skeleton.

“Sup kiddo.” It said, leaning against a massive scythe. “Ye seen Othl'evfwia anywhere? The little devil ate my lunch.” It raised the weapon, empty eye sockets scouring the shadows in search of its prey.

“Good afternoon, Honorius.” John replied, adjusting his tie. “No, I haven’t seen her. Why, were there any trespassers?”

“Just the mailman, and she just HAD to eat him!”

“Tough luck.” John moved past the skeletal butler, minding not to go anywhere near the scythe; Honorius could be rather… eccentric. “Good luck in finding her.”

Good luck indeed. Othl'evfwia was a shade; a small creature made of darkness which lived in the walls and ate rats and intruders, so she and her kin could hide just about anywhere. John liked to summon them as practice because they were low maintenance, easy to summon and the other Mr Peregrine was really fond of them. 

Speaking of whom...

The shadow cast by the grandfather’s clock darkened suddenly and a tall, graceful silhouette stepped out of it. It shifted and flickered for a few moments like a mirage before taking form and colours; a man in his middle thirties with dark skin, black hair that sort of (in John’s opinion) resembled feathers, and eyes so black that they hurt to look at directly. An insectoid-looking shade was perched on his shoulder. 

John recognised the shade as Othl'evfwia. 

“Hello, Jonathan.” The man said, voice quiet and sinister like the void whispering in your ear as you desperately try to sleep.

“Hi, Ammet.” John beamed. “What’s for dinner today? Faquarl wouldn’t say.” If one Mr Peregrine was home, then the other one had surely arrived as well.

The eldritch abomination gently shooed the shade off his shoulder, watching it crawl down the sleeve of his suit, then down his leg, then scurry off into the darkness. He shrugged.

"Oh, okay."

They descended down the final flight of stairs together, Ammet deciding to melt into shadows again after five or six steps. John didn’t really mind anymore; he wasn’t bad for a thousand-year-old shapeshifting entity capable of singlehandedly reducing entire mountain ranges to dust. Creepy as all fuck, sure, but allowed him to operate the electric chair sometimes, which was cool.

They passed very mangled-looking Jane and Jabor. Jane’s dress was dirty and soaked with rain, while Jabor was covered in wet grass. The former was clutching a hairbrush like a trophy.

Ammet sneered at them. “Sort yourselves out, you two.” He ordered, his tone leaving absolutely no room for insubordination. “I don’t want to see either of you unless you’re absolutely spotless.”

The werewolves nodded fearfully, quickly disappearing upstairs. John couldn’t help but roll his eyes at their immature behaviour. To think that Jane was Mr Duvall’s most valued apprentice.

“What did you think about the recent attack of the Resistance?” He asked, attempting to change the subject. Several days ago, the Resistance blew up a chandler’s workshop - the man supplied half of London’s magicians with candles necessary for summoning. Well, used to. 

Ammet shrugged once again. “Nothing innovative or particularly threatening.” He said. “More annoying than anything if you ask me. I’ve seen a bunch of anarchists do something similar in 1200 BC Egypt, several days before I decimated them.” He flexed his fingers, which immediately shifted into claws. “Even Duvall and his band of mutts should be able to take care of this crowd.”

“Evidently not.” John watched the change with fascination, trying to notice exactly where on Ammet's fingers it began. “Do you know where Kh- I mean, Mr Peregrine is? I need to ask him something.”

The shadow seemed to raise an eyebrow at him. “May I ask what?” He asked, fingers returning to normal length. “I will find out anyway, you know.”

“Yeah yeah.” John dug his hands into his pockets, pouting. “I want to ask him to teach me how to cast the Inverted Skin; I've tried fifty times and I just can’t get it right!”

“Hm,” Ammet rubbed his chin. “Did you draw the pentacle right?”

"According to the book."

"What did you cast it on?"

“Imps of 2nd, 3rd, 4th, 6th, 8th and 10th level, as well as two 5th level foliots.”

“I see. How did you pronounce [insert a string of words in a language so terrifying that many a mortal have gone mad just from hearing it]?”

John repeated the phrase just as he did during the summonings, ending with a huff. “I’ve been trying for weeks! I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”

Ammet did a shadowy equivalent of an amused smile. “What effects have you achieved?” He asked, folding his arms and knowing very well what the problem was.

John rubbed the back of his neck. “They exploded.” He said, recalling all the times he had to clean his room from blood and viscera left by the unfortunate things. Sure, he was used to doing that, but the fact that the mess was made due to his failure and not success usually made the experience somewhat humiliating. 

They entered the dining room to see some of the other family members lounging about while waiting for supper; aunt Balkis was filing her blood red nails as she discussed an assassination over the phone; Queezle the cat was napping on the counter (John sat beside her and pulled out his pocket sketchbook with the intention of sketching out how her skeleton could look like in that position); and cousin Ptolemy was, as always, reading. No sign of Mr Peregrine, though. 

Suddenly, Jabor barged through the other door in his wolf form, one of Asmira's throwing knives in his teeth and the woman herself running after him and aiming with another knife.  
No, wait. John squinted at the shiny object in Jabor’s teeth. It was too short and thin to be a throwing knife.

Oh Azathoth save that poor idiot, was it...?

A loud CRACK sent the whole room into silence. 

A tall figure clad in black appeared in the doorway, a whip in hand. Dark, narrowed eyes locked with Jabor's, who whimpered in fear.

"Jabor." Mr Peregrine, still known in some circles as Khaba the Cruel, drawled. "My scalpel. Spit it out now."

The werewolf obeyed instantly, dropping the knife on the floor and running out as fast as his legs could carry him. Queezle, brutally awoken from her nap, followed suit.

John watched as his master went over to retrieve one of his many scalpels and carelessly throw it in the sink. The action made the tension in the room lessen a little; Ptolemy continued to read, Balkis returned to the interrupted conversation, and Asmira sent Khaba a particularly contemptuous look; one he returned tenfold, wordlessly promising pain beyond any compare. 

Ammet hopped off the counter he was perched on and went to steal and kiss from his husband. “You’re late.” He purred, moving away. “What took you so long?”

"Fools, the whole lot of them." Khaba snarled, his grip on the flail's handle tightening angrily. "One day we'll slaughter them all."

John nodded sympathetically. Ah, so it was most likely Tallow or Makepeace. Probably not both because then his master would’ve ended up murdering at least one of them, which would’ve taken him two hours at least to clean up after.

“Pay them no heed.” Ammet advised, fingers moving to gently stroke the back of his husband’s neck, something he often did to calm him down. “They are nothing but worms writhing at our feet.”

Khaba relaxed into the touch, eyes fluttering closed for a moment as he felt all tension leave him. “Thank you, my dearest.” He murmured, reaching to grasp Ammet’s hand and bring his fingers to his lips. “You are, of course, correct as always. We will make them pay.”

“Mhm.” The shadow - Khaba’s exact duplicate in silhouette - nodded, somehow managing to look absolutely lovestruck without any features to speak of. 

“You will make a gorgeous king, my love.” He cooed, resting his forehead on Khaba’s. “I can almost picture you, sitting on a throne made of the bones and skulls of our enemies, rivers of their blood flowing all around you and a glorious crown resting upon your temples.” He sighed at the evidently beautiful image. “You look stunning in red.”

“So do you, you know.” Khaba chuckled, a rather disturbing sound to those unaccustomed to it. “Especially when you let your true form emerge. You have no idea how wonderful you are when in midst of a carnage; I could watch you slaughter entire armies and still not get used to the sight of your talons tearing through armour and flesh alike, or your teeth bared in a grin that strikes fear and madness into the hearts of the bravest of men.”

Asmira gagged loudly. The rest of the family (John included) just ignored the pair, having long ago grown accustomed to the shameless displays of affection tinged with bloodlust and villainy.

“I cannot wait until we get our hands on the captive that Duvall seized during the incident.” Ammet clapped his hands. “She’s apparently feisty, too. I wonder what her screams sound like.”

John glanced back up at them (he decided to focus on doodling mindlessly in his sketchbook when the two began cooing at each other like bloodthirsty lovebirds. Ewww.) A captive? Have the werewolves caught one of the members of the Resistance?

Khaba nodded, gathering up the whip and attaching it to the hook by his belt. “A child, too.” He said, recalling his conversation with Jane’s employer, the Chief of Police. “More or less John’s age, I believe.” He glanced at his apprentice unexpectedly. “John, what percentage of one’s body weight is their blood?”

“Approximately 7 to 10%, sir.” John answered without a moment of hesitation. 

“Correct. And how much blood is that for a 14 year old?”

“Approximately the same as for an average adult,” He recited, “which is 4.7 to 5.5 litres, give or take several millilitres.”

His master nodded, which was his most evident way of showing approval. “And how much blood must one lose before they die?” 

John licked his lips, trying to remember the… aha! “Around 40% or more, sir! That would be class 4 haemorrhage, sir!” He answered, earning yet another nod. 

Ammet grinned at him. “You’re learning quickly.” He remarked with a twinge of pride in his voice. “Keep up your plot to get rid of Whitwell and we just might let you have some fun with her.”

Fun? John’s eyes lit up like two exploding stars. Fun! That meant that he’ll finally be allowed to use the stuff in the basement!!! 

His increasingly gory fantasies were interrupted by Honorius strolling into the room and announcing that the supper was ready.

~~~

Perfecting his plan for the upcoming release of Makepeace's new play took him shorter than expected, the problem of where he could get the scorpions from solved thanks to good old black magic, and John found that he was, well, bored.

He could try his luck with the Inverted Skin again, but he still had no clue why the spell was killing instead of merely wounding, so he decided not to risk wasting imps. He then considered teaching Othl'evfwia some tricks with the scraps of meat he snuck from the table, seeing that she seemed to like him. However, Honorius was going to most likely eat her as revenge for eating the mailman, so that was pointless too. Knife throwing with Asmira was a no since she usually trained alone, and playing fetch with Jabor always brought the risk of the werewolf changing into his humanoid form and setting him on fire. Ptolemy was probably neck-deep in his research, so there was no point in even considering interacting with him.

That left...

He crept out of his bedroom and walked downstairs, hoping that neither the shades nor Honorius would mistake him for an intruder/supper. Coming to the double door leading to the basement, he took a deep breath before knocking three times.

"In." Came a short command, and he pushed the door open, not even flinching at the stench of death and fear which flooded his senses. The screaming didn't startle him, either. Judging from the voice it was an adult man, so the Resistance girl was probably still unharmed for now. Good.

He went down the narrow steps, passing numerous shelves filled with skulls, mummified animals and other miscellaneous possessions his masters have accumulated throughout the years, before entering a large, domed vault lit by hundreds of candles which lined the walls. They burned blue, green and black, making the room look as if it was leagues under the sea. 

The basement was really more of a laboratory/prison/torture chamber, but John called it a basement because it was shorter. 

He found his masters standing by the metal table, to which a struggling man was strapped. He seemed to be in the process of being vivisected.

"Do you want anything?" Khaba asked impatiently, wiping his hands with a bloodied rag.

"I'm bored." John explained. "I want to try to cast the Inverted Skin, but it never works and I don't know why!" The end of the sentence came out almost as a whine.

His masters shared an amused look before the shadowy one stuck his scalpel into the victim's thigh, extracting another scream.

"The bottom line," He said, leaning over the captive, "is that you're using the right incantation, but the wrong victim."

John furrowed his eyebrows, not understanding. 

"The reason why your spell is tearing the imps and foliots to shreds is that they're too weak to withstand it. Think of it like peeling fruits." Ammet gestured accordingly. "You need some sort of resistance from the flesh so that the skin could come off easily. If the flesh is too soft and the force too great, it comes off with the skin and you get one big soggy mess."

"Exactly." Khaba smiled fondly at his husband. "The Inverted Skin is too powerful for low level spirits. Try summoning a djinni and see how that works out."

A djinni? John paled. "B-but Mr Underwood said that I'm not experienced enough to summon them." Besides, he _did_ summon one a while ago...

Khaba waved his hand impatiently. "And where is Underwood now? Dead, exactly. Look, I summoned a 7th level marid by myself when I was 11, so I'm sure that you can manage."

Said marid, seeing that John remained unsure, beckoned him closer with a coy smile.

"Tell you what," He said. "If you manage to summon at least a fourth level djinni and not get yourself killed, we’ll show you how to operate the Essence Rack."

The Essence Rack?! John gasped, frown turning into the widest grin since the affair with the inspector and the rats. Too excited to even utter a word of thanks, he rushed out of the basement, taking two steps at a time and giggling like a dork.

The Peregrines watched him go with proud smiles before one turned to pull the other into a deep, bloody, passionate kiss.

~~~

Back in his bedroom, John dug out a box of chalk and the appropriate grimoire, and began the summoning. Soon, his efforts were rewarded by a figure materialising in the summoning circle.

"Greetings, dear master!" The figure sing-sang, changing shape from a spear-bearer to a beautiful bespectacled maiden. "Congratulations, you have summoned me. Good job, you have proven your power. Now dismiss me before I eat you."

John grinned, rubbing his hands eagerly. "I am not going to dismiss you, Bartimaeus." He said.

The woman's face twisted with outrage. "OH NO, NOT YOU AGAIN."


	5. All-Nighter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This isn't an AU for a change, but merely a scene I thought could be amusing. Ironically, I'm currently staying up quite late to edit and post this.

Khaba sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. What time was it? Too late, that was for sure. But he was almost done and Ra knew that he hated leaving work unfinished at the end of the day.

“Master,” A faint breeze, warm breath at the back of his neck and suddenly there was a pair of arms wrapped around his midsection, “the night is growing old. You should rest.”

What, was the night almost over already? Khaba glanced at the window. But the sunset felt like it was merely five minutes ago!

“Time isn’t real, Ammet.” He muttered, returning to writing. “Now leave me be; I’ll be finished soon.”

A chuckle. “You said that three hours ago.” Ammet replied, long fingers caressing the back of his neck. “You can always finish in the morning.”

Khaba shook his head, waving his marid away. “I’m going to get this done quicker if you stop pestering me.” He muttered. “Go snack on an imp, bother the captives, whatever. Just leave me be.”

The presence behind him shifted with an amused “hmm”, which Khaba knew was synonymous to phrases such as _“challenge accepted”_ or one that will be particularly popular in several centuries’ time: _“hold my beer and watch this.”_

Moments later a sleek black cat jumped on the desk and sat next to the nearly burned out candle, glaring at Khaba with vibrantly green eyes.

He glared back. “You aren’t going to give it up, aren’t you?” he asked, amused despite himself.

“I am not.” The cat confirmed, its tail moving lazily from side to side like a serpent. “I am telling you now, Master, rest now or you will hate yourself in the morning.”

“I hate myself already, dearest.” Khaba rested his chin on top of his palm, a smirk tugging at his lips. “It’s good that you love me for both of us.”

The cat looked at him incredulously. “Humour? From you?” it chuckled. “Are you sure that you aren’t growing delirious from sleep deprivation? It’s not unheard of, you know.”

“Quite sure.” Khaba reached for the quill. “Now move your tail; I only have ten pages to go and I’ll get them done sooner if you get off my desk.”

“Dismiss me, then.”

“You won’t listen.”

“You know me so well.” The cat purred, standing up to rub its cheek against Khaba’s. “Returning to my previous point, though, you can finish the remaining pages tomorrow… or today, technically.” It approached the stack of rolls of blank parchment, pawing at the bottom one.

Khaba sighed, sending a quiet plea to the gods to send him a few strands of patience to deal with his shadowy lover. “Ammet.” He growled, too tired to even be angry. “Don’t you dare.”

The cat pawed at the scrolls again, harder this time. Some of the ones on the top shifted ever so slightly.

“Ammet, I’m warning you.”

Poke.

“I’ll Stipple you into the next century.”

Another poke.

“Stipple _and_ Spasm.”

“Meow.” 

“Now, mind the tone or I’ll throw in the Essence Rack.”

“Mrrrow.”

“Now you’re just being obnoxious.”

“And I won’t stop until you get some rest.” Ammet insisted, evidently losing patience. “You’re so sleep-deprived that you haven’t noticed that you have been writing without ink for the past thirty minutes.”

WHAT?! Khaba looked down at the scroll he’s been slaving over for the past hour. Indeed, about half of the writing simply wasn’t there. He wasted time.

“Ugh, fine!” He stood up from the desk with a cry of frustration. “I’ll finish this blasted report for Solomon tomorrow.”

“Today, technically.” Ammet chirped, not even trying to hide his satisfaction. He nodded towards the window which showed purple but slowly brightening sky. 

“I hate you sometimes.” Khaba muttered, exiting the study. “I could’ve finished it if you didn’t distract me.” He was deluding himself and he knew that; it was much more likely that he’d end up asleep at the desk, in a puddle of ink and ruined pages. Ammet was right once again and, judging from the cat’s proud gait, the smug bastard knew it.

“Of course you do.” Ammet cooed, jumping on the bed. “Almost as much as you love me.”

Khaba sat down next to him. “That ‘almost’ is the only thing keeping you alive right now.” He said, falling back on the soft pillows. “That and the fact that I still hate you less than I hate everyone else, so finding another idiot to love would be difficult, dare I say impossible.”

Ammet laughed, shifting back into shadow form. “You flatter me, dear Khaba.” He hummed.

No reply.

He frowned. “Master?”

The lack of response was a response in itself; Ammet was delighted to find out that Khaba was, indeed, fast asleep. Shaking his head over his stubborn beloved, the marid pulled a blanket over him and quietly left the room.

~~~ 

Ammet was So. Goddamn. _Right._

Khaba didn’t remember the last time when he loathed his life choices as much as he did when he woke up a few hours later.

Much to his surprise, however, he found a pile of neatly stacked pages on the stand next to his bed. The report, complete to a letter.

The bastard even took care to replicate his handwriting!

He found Ammet reading in the study. He looked up to say something but was successfully silenced by Khaba pressing a long, grateful kiss to his lips.

“You’ve won, my dearest.” He whispered, pulling away to look at his marid. “Look, I cannot even be angry at you now.”

Ammet grinned at him, somewhere between smug and lovestruck. “You’re welcome.”


	6. Chapter 12 - reworked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exactly what it says on the tin. I took chapter 12 of "The Ring of Solomon" and changed a few bits that were bothering me, as well as made the whole thing even gayer than it originally was. Unfortunately, I had to cut out the infamous "I like you hungry, it keeps you alert" but I hope that the rest makes up for it.

Khaba slammed shut the door to his tower and leaned against it, a snarl escaping his lips. That thrice damned, imbecilic waste of essence! Oh, he will make the djinni pay for the humiliation tenfold. The only question remained how…

He exhaled, making up his mind, and headed for the hidden door to his cellar workshop. He descended through the familiar corridors, torches and candles lighting up as he passed. As he approached a tall, black doorway, Khaba uttered a short word of command; soundless as a thought, the spirit trapped in the mechanism spun the door open, allowing him to pass without breaking stride. He spoke another word and the door was shut.

Darkness enveloped him, incalculable and absolute. Khaba came to a brief halt, allowing himself a moment of respite to cherish the cool blackness after the hot, harsh light of the building site. Gradually, soft noises began to reach his ears: shuffles, moans and faint mewlings of things too long shut in pain and darkness, the anxious stirrings of other beings that feared light and the violence it brought. He luxuriated in the sounds for a while before stirring himself. A fresh command, and all along the ceiling of the vault, the imps trapped in faience globes made their magic come to life. Eerie blue-green radiance filled the chamber, waxing, ebbing, deep and fathomless as the sea.

The vault was broad and domed; the ceiling supported by tall, rough-hewn columns that cut across the blue-green haze like the stalks of giant underwater reeds. Between the columns stood an assortment of marble plinths and tables, chairs, couches and many other instruments of subtle use. 

This was the heart of Khaba's domain, an intricate reflection of his mind and inclinations.

He threaded his way past the slabs where he conducted his experiments of dissection, past the preservation pits, acrid with the taint of natron, past the troughs of sand where the process of mummification could be observed. He skirted between the ranks of bottles, vats of wooden piping, past shelves containing vials and jars full of powdered components and trays of carefully preserved insects, past the dim, dark cabinets containing the mummified carcasses of frog and cat and other, larger, beings. He bypassed the ossuary, where labelled skulls and bones of a hundred beasts were set neatly side by side with the ones of men.

Khaba ignored the calls and weeping from the essence-cages in the recesses of the hall. He halted at a large pentacle made of smooth black onyx, the engravings filled with lapis lazuli glittering faintly in the light. Stepping into its centre, he took up the flail and cracked it once into the empty air.

All sounds from the cages stilled.

In the shadows beyond the columns, on the margins of the blue-green light, a presence made itself known by a deepening of darkness and a clattering of teeth.

"Nurgal," Khaba said, not even needing to look in the being's direction to recognise it. "I have a task for you."

"Name it."

"A little… incident has occurred today, one that my colleague Reuben seemed to have found especially amusing, since he laughed the loudest out of the lot." Khaba's features twisted with rage as he recalled the events on the building site. "I need you to punish him. You are, I assume, familiar with marsh fever?"

"I am. How long shall it last?"

"Four days, worsening with each night. Make him lie awash in misery, his limbs afire, his body chilled; make his eyes blind, but let him see visions of horrors during the hours of darkness, so that he writhes and cries out for aid that never comes."

"Devious." There was a sickening, wet sound as the creature licked its lips. "Do you wish him to die?"

Khaba hesitated. On one hand, Reuben was a pathetic weakling incapable of retaliating; but if he perished, Solomon would surely take action. He shook his head. "Not yet. Four days. Then he recovers."

"It shall be done." With a clattering of teeth and claws, the horla sped past him and away through a narrow aperture in the ceiling, sending scrolls of parchment fluttering and the things in cages howling in the dark.

With the matter settled, Khaba snapped his fingers and spoke a complex string of syllables. There was a distant chime of bells. The imp-globes shivered against the ceiling and drapes on some of the essence cages ruffled to and fro.

"Gezeri."

With a sharp odour of rotten eggs, a small lilac cloud materialised in the air next to the pentacle. The foliot situated on top of it, Gezeri, made a series of complex and faintly facetious salutes, all of which Khaba ignored.

"Your report, slave?" He asked impatiently.

The foliot took on an attitude of matchless boredom. "I have been to Sheba as you _requested._ I have wandered its streets unseen, listening to the people. Be certain that I let no whisper pass me by, no muttered comment go unheard!"

"I am sure of it – otherwise you would burn in the Dismal Flame."

"That was my thinking too." The foliot scratched its pear-shaped nose. "In consequence, I heard a lot of dreary nonsense. The things you mortals worry about! Dowries, tooth-rot, the price of camels – are you aware how short and insignificant your miserable little lifespans are? Literally none of this will matter in ten, twenty years, especially after you've turned into dust."

Khaba smiled politely, eyes glinting with murderous intent. "As fascinating as your philosophy is, Gezeri," he drawled through gritted teeth. "I worry about none of these things. What I _do_ worry about, though, is what Queen Balkis is up to nowadays. Care to enlighten me before I stretch you on the Essence Rack and extract the information from your screams?"

Gezeri wisely willed his cloud to move a few feet back. "Relax, boss." He raised his hands in mock surrender. "In a word: nothing. Nothing out of the ordinary, I mean. As far as I can make out, she's doing her normal rounds: meditating in the temples, meeting with merchants, hearing representations from her people: all the usual sort of queenly claptrap. I've sniffed about behind the scenes, eavesdropped on all and sundry, and I got nothing. No sign of any response at all."

"She still has five days left," Khaba mused. "Five days… Are you sure there has been no build-up of troops? No increase in defences?"

Gezeri scoffed. "What troops? What defences? Sheba's not even got a proper army – just a bunch of skinny girls who hang about the queen, and the priestesses haven't even bothered to put up a second-plane nexus around the palace. An imp could stroll right in."

Khaba stroked his chin. "Good. Clearly she intends to make the payment. They all do, in the end."

"Yeah, well, that being the case," the foliot said, lounging about on its cloud, "why don't you dismiss me? I'm fed up with all this long-distanc-ARGH!" It howled in pain as a lance of crackling energy appeared out of thin air and gave its backside a painful jab.

"Absolutely out of the question." Khaba quipped, amusement evident in his voice. "Now make yourself scarce. If you keep spying and quit whining, I might release you after the Sheba affair is over."

"Fine, fine. Your wish is my command and all that." Gezeri massaged the singed spot, pouting, before snapping its fingers and disappearing.

Khaba returned the whip to the hook on his belt and left the pentacle, heading for the nearest couch. Exhausted, he sunk into the soft pillows and uttered a name. "Ammet."

A soft voice at his ear, "Master."

He exhaled, eyes fluttering closed. Ammet's sheer presence comforted him. "That was an… unpleasant experience." He muttered.

"I know, Master. I am sorry."

"You have no reason to be, it was no fault of yours." He waved his hand dismissively. "Do you have any ideas how I could regain Solomon's favour?"

"That will be no easy matter." The presence behind him shifted, leaning on the back of the headrest. It sighed with resignation. "It appears that apprehending the desert bandits is the only viable solution."

Khaba gave a cry of rage. "We need to be here, at the court! If I am absent, the others will seize the chance to speak with Solomon and further undermine my position. You saw their faces on the hill. Hiram could scarcely keep himself from crowing with joy as he watched me squirm!"

"I will eviscerate him on the first opportunity I get." The voice promised softly. "As to our business with the queen, Gezeri can report to you in the desert as well as anywhere. Besides, you have given too much time to your… secondary affairs – and see where it has gotten you."

"How was I supposed to know that the preening fool would choose today to inspect his cursed temple? He should have given me a warning of some sort."

"It was rather inconsiderate of him, I agree, but try not to trouble yourself with that. A small slip up, inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. We will persevere, as we always have. We will find a way."

Khaba bowed his head gratefully to let something gently, soothingly caress his neck. "Yes, you are right, sweet Ammet, of course you are. It is just so frustrating to watch that vain, indolent…"

"I know." The voice soothed, its breath tickling Khaba's ear. "Given the opportunity, I would rip his heart out of his chest and present it to you along with the ring."

Khaba smiled fondly. "I know that you would, my dearest." He hummed, smile vanishing as another matter tugged at his memory. "What of Bartimaeus, though?"

The voice snarled - a deep, rattling sound. "That vile djinni." It hissed. "It was all his fault. A hippopotamus on a sacred temple mount! The scandal! The insolence! Can you imagine?"

"It seems that I do not have to." Khaba pinched the bridge of his nose. "And wouldn't you have said," he added slowly, reflecting, "that in face and form it bore a certain resemblance to…"

"Fortunately for us, Solomon did not seem to have noticed. Still, the djinni deserves a punishment more severe than whipping and Essence Rack." 

"Agreed." Khaba hummed, sensing the presence behind him tremble with barely contained wrath. He moved a couple of pillows aside. "Come here, dearest." He said, the space next to him growing noticeably colder as something settled by his side. He wrapped an arm around it. "What do you suggest? The Inverted Skin? The Osiris Box?"

"Too lenient, too temporary. No, This disgrace calls for proper, permanent punishment." Then, the being paused, as if an idea struck it. "Master, let me deal with him." It beseeched, voice growing urgent. "I hunger, I thirst. I have not fed for so, so long. I can rid you of this irritant, and satisfy my cravings at the same time."

Khaba regarded it with a mixture of amusement and endearment. "Not a bad idea," he admitted. "However, as much as I would love to leave that piece of filth in your gentle care, I need all my djinn alive and available while we comb the desert for these outlaws. Besides, Solomon has ordered me to teach Bartimaeus a lesson; killing him could bring even more trouble than it would solve."

"I see." The voice trailed off, evidently disappointed. "As you will…"

Gods, how could he say no to that? "You know, Ammet, I wonder…" Khaba mused, a smirk playing on his lips. "Do you think that it would be possible for Bartimaeus to have a little, ah, _accident_ while hunting? Perhaps he was struck down by an enemy spirit? Such incidents happen, you know. I doubt that Solomon would care enough to investigate."

The being looked up at him. "Indeed," it said, its voice a mixture of hope and surprise. "And if Bartimaeus were to be presumed dead…"

"…We would have absolutely free reign over his fate." Khaba finished, his smile widening as he began to warm up to the idea, "We could even ‘kill' another spirit to make it look more like a coincidence. How hungry did you say you were?"

A grin split the darkness, tens if not hundreds of sharp, needle-like teeth. "Famished." The voice purred, hands moving up Khaba's chest to rest on his shoulders, fingers deftly unclasping his cloak. "Starving. _Ravenous._ "

"Well," Khaba licked his lips; he couldn't have hoped for a better answer. "If you are this desperate for a treat…" Quick as a serpent, he lunged, earning a shocked but ecstatic gasp as he pinned the object of his desires down. His lips, hovering teasingly mere inches away from a kiss, whispered, _"beg for it."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Besides, Solomon has ordered me to teach Bartimaeus a lesson; killing him could bring even more trouble than it would solve." OH BUDDY IF ONLY YOU KNEW.


End file.
